Sunday, December 7, 2014

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, by Washington Irving

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,
Found Among the Papers of the Late Diedrich Knickerbocker

by Washington Irving (1783-1859)

A pleasing land of drowsy head it
was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
Forever flushing round a summer sky.
CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of
the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient
Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail
and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a
small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which
is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was
given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent
country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the
village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact,
but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far
from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather
lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole
world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to
repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is
almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect
that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of
tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at
noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of
my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and
reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I
might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the
remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little
valley.

From the listless
repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are
descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long
been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the
Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy
influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some
say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days
of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of
his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master
Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of
some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people,
causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of
marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see
strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood
abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars
shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the
country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the
favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant
spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be
commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure
on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian
trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless
battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the
country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the
wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the
adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great
distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who
have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning
this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the
churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of
his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the
Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to
get back to the churchyard before daybreak.

Such is the
general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials
for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all
the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

It is
remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to
the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one
who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they
entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the
witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams,
and see apparitions.

I mention this
peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch
valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that
population, manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of
migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other
parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those
little nooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the
straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic
harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have
elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether
I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its
sheltered bosom.

In this
by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is
to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane,
who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow,
for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of
Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as
well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen
and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his
person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and
legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served
for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was
small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long
snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck
to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a
hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one
might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or
some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse
was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows
partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks. It was most
ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the
door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that though a thief might
get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out,--an
idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery
of an eelpot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation,
just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a
formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of
his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy
summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the
authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command, or,
peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy
loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a
conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, "Spare the rod
and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled.

I would not
have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the
school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered
justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the
backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny
stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with
indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double
portion on some little tough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who
sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he
called "doing his duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a
chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the
smarting urchin, that "he would remember it and thank him for it the
longest day he had to live."

When school
hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys; and
on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened
to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts
of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils.
The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely
sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and,
though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his
maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and
lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these he
lived successively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood,
with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this
might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to
consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere
drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He
assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped
to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from
pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant
dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the
school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the
eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and
like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would
sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours
together.

In addition to
his other vocations, he was the singing- master of the neighborhood, and picked
up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a
matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of
the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he
completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice
resounded far above all the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar
quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a
mile off, quite to the opposite side of the millpond, on a still Sunday
morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod
Crane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious way which is
commonly denominated "by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got
on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the
labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.

The
schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a
rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage,
of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and,
indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is
apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the
addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the
parade of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy
in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the
churchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the
wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all
the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along
the banks of the adjacent millpond; while the more bashful country bumpkins
hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.__

From his
half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the
whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was
always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a
man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a
perfect master of Cotton Mather's "History of New England Witchcraft,"
in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed.

He was, in
fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for
the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and
both had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale
was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight,
after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich
bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and
there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening
made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way
by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to
be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his
excited imagination,--the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside, the
boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the
screech owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from
their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest
places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream
across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging
his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the
ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. His only resource
on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to
sing psalm tunes and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their
doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody,
"in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill,
or along the dusky road.

Another of his
sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch
wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and
spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts
and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and
haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian
of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by
his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and
sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and
would frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars;
and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that
they were half the time topsy-turvy!

But if there
was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a
chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of
course, no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the
terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset
his path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful
look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields
from some distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with
snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path! How often did he
shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust
beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold
some uncouth being tramping close behind him! And how often was he thrown into
complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea
that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!

All these,
however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in
darkness; and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than
once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet
daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant
life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been
crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts,
goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was--a woman.

Among the
musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his
instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child
of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump
as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's
peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast
expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even
in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most
suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which
her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; the tempting
stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to
display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

Ichabod Crane
had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; and it is not to be wondered at that
so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had
visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect
picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is
true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own
farm; but within those everything was snug, happy and well-conditioned. He was
satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the
hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was
situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile
nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm tree
spread its broad branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of
the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel; and then
stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled
along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn,
that might have served for a church; every window and crevice of which seemed
bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding
within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about
the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the
weather, some with their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms, and
others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the
sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and
abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of
sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were
riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of
turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and Guinea fowls fretting about it,
like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the
barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior and a
fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and
gladness of his heart,--sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then
generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the
rich morsel which he had discovered.__

The pedagogue's
mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter
fare. In his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig
running about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the
pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a
coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks
pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency
of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of
bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up,
with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory
sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side
dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous
spirit disdained to ask while living.

As the
enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over
the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and
Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the
warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to
inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they
might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of
wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already
realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole
family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household
trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself
bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky,
Tennessee,--or the Lord knows where!

When he entered
the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious
farmhouses, with high- ridged but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style
handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low projecting eaves forming a
piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this
were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing
in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use;
and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the
various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza
the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion,
and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long
dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be
spun; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of
Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons
along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar
gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark
mahogany tables shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel
and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock- oranges and
conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds eggs
were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the
room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures
of old silver and well-mended china.

From the moment
Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was
at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless
daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real
difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who
seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily
conquered adversaries, to contend with and had to make his way merely through
gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where the
lady of his heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would
carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie; and then the lady gave him her
hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the
heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices,
which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments; and he had to
encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous
rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and
angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any
new competitor.

Among these,
the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of the name of
Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of
the country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was
broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff
but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From
his Herculean frame and great powers of limb he had received the nickname of
BROM BONES, by which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge
and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was
foremost at all races and cock fights; and, with the ascendancy which bodily
strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes,
setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that
admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a
frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and with all
his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at
bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model,
and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud
or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur
cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at a country
gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a
squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew
would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and
halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their
sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and
then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!" The neighbors
looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will; and, when any
madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their
heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.

This rantipole
hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his
uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the
gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did
not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals
for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his
amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on
a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed,
"sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and
carried the war into other quarters.

Such was the
formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all
things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a
wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability
and perseverance in his nature; he was in form and spirit like a
supple-jack--yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never broke; and though he
bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away--jerk!--he
was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever.

To have taken
the field openly against his rival would have been madness; for he was not a
man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles.
Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner.
Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the
farmhouse; not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome
interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of
lovers. Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter
better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father,
let her have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to
do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely
observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but
girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the
house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would
sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a
little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly
fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would
carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great
elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's
eloquence.

I profess not
to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been
matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point,
or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in
a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former,
but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter,
for man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a
thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps
undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is,
this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment
Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently
declined: his horse was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights,
and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy
Hollow.

Brom, who had a
degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open
warfare and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode
of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore,-- by
single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his
adversary to enter the lists against him; he had overheard a boast of Bones,
that he would "double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his
own schoolhouse;" and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There
was something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left
Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his
disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod
became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough
riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing
school by stopping up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in
spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned
everything topsy-turvy, so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the
witches in the country held their meetings there. But what was still more
annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence
of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most
ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's, to instruct her in
psalmody.

In this way
matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the
relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon,
Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he
usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he
swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed
on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers, while on the
desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited
weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched
apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little
paper gamecocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice
recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books,
or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master; and a kind
of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was suddenly
interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a
round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back
of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of
halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod
to attend a merry-making or "quilting frolic," to be held that
evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and having delivered his message with that air
of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display on
petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering
away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now
bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were hurried
through their lessons without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble
skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart
application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed or help them over
a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves,
inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned
loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young
imps, yelping and racketing about the green in joy at their early emancipation.

The gallant
Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and
furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his
locks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he
might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier,
he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric
old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted,
issued forth like a knight- errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I
should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks
and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a
broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything but its
viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck, and a head like a
hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs; one eye had
lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a
genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we
may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite
steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and
had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old
and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than
in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a
suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought
his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out
like grasshoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre,
and as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping
of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his
scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat
fluttered out almost to the horses tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and
his steed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was
altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

It was, as I
have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore
that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of
abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some
trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of
orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their
appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the
groves of beech and hickory- nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals
from the neighboring stubble field.

The small birds
were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry, they
fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree to tree,
capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the
honest cock robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud
querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the
golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid
plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and
its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in
his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering,
nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every
songster of the grove.

As Ichabod
jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary
abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides
he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the
trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up
in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian
corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out
the promise of cakes and hasty- pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath
them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample
prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant
buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft
anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and
garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina
Van Tassel.

Thus feeding
his mind with many sweet thoughts and "sugared suppositions," he
journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the
goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk
down in the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy,
excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue
shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without
a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing
gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-
heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that
overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and
purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping
slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and as
the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the
vessel was suspended in the air.

It was toward
evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he
found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers,
a spare leathern- faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings,
huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames,
in close-crimped caps, long-waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats, with
scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom
lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a
fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The
sons, in short square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and
their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they
could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the
country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.

Brom Bones,
however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his
favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and
mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for
preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which kept the rider
in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, well-broken horse as
unworthy of a lad of spirit.

Fain would I
pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of
my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of
the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white; but
the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of
autumn. Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable
kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty
doughnut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes
and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes.
And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; besides
slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved
plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and
roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-
piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot
sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst-- Heaven bless the mark! I want
breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get
on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his
historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.

He was a kind
and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled
with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating, as some men's do with
drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and
chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene
of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn
his back upon the old schoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van
Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out
of doors that should dare to call him comrade!

Old Baltus Van
Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good
humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were
brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the
shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to "fall to, and help
themselves."

And now the
sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The
musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of
the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and
battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three
strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head;
bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple
were to start.

Ichabod prided
himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a
fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full
motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus
himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person.
He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and
sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining
black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling
their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How
could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The lady of
his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all
his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy,
sat brooding by himself in one corner.

When the dance
was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with
Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former
times, and drawing out long stories about the war.

This
neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly
favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The British and
American line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene
of marauding and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border
chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each storyteller to dress
up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his
recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.

There was the
story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a
British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that
his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall
be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the
battle of White Plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball
with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade,
and glance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time to show
the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been
equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a
considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.

But all these
were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The
neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and
superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; but are
trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of
our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of
our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap and
turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have travelled
away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their
rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason
why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch
communities.

The immediate
cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was
doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the
very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of
dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people
were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and
wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and
mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the
unfortunate Major André was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some
mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at
Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm,
having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however,
turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, who
had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said,
tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.

The sequestered
situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of
troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty
elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like
Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope
descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between
which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its
grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think
that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church
extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks
and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from
the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and
the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom
about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such
was one of the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the place where he
was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most
heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the Horseman returning from his
foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped
over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when
the Horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook,
and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.

This story was
immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made
light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that on
returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been
overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a
bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse
all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and
vanished in a flash of fire.

All these
tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the
countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from
the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind
with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many
marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and
fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.

The revel now
gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their
wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over
the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their
favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of
hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until
they gradually died away,--and the late scene of noise and frolic was all
silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of
country lovers, to have a tête-à-tête with the heiress; fully convinced that he
was now on the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will not
pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must
have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval,
with an air quite desolate and chapfallen. Oh, these women! these women! Could
that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her
encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of
his rival? Heaven only knows, not I! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth
with the air of one who had been sacking a henroost, rather than a fair lady's
heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural
wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and
with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his steed most uncourteously from
the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of
mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.

It was the very
witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his
travels homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry
Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal
as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste
of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at
anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the
barking of the watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so
vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful
companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock,
accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse away among
the hills--but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life
occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or
perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping
uncomfortably and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories
of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon
his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink
deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He
had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very
place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the
centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant
above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark.
Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary
trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was
connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken
prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major André's tree.
The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition,
partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill- starred namesake, and partly
from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.

As Ichabod
approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was
answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he
approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the
midst of the tree: he paused and ceased whistling but, on looking more
narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by
lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan--his teeth
chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of
one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed
the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two
hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a
marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough
logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of
the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts,
matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass
this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate
André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the
sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered
a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass
it alone after dark.

As he
approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all
his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted
to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the
perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the
fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the
other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his
steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of
the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now
bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who
dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge,
with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just
at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive
ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he
beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It stirred not, but seemed
gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the
traveller.

The hair of the
affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn
and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost
or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind?
Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents,
"Who are you?" He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a
still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled
the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with
involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put
itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle
of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown
might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large
dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of
molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging
along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and
waywardness.

Ichabod, who
had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the
adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed in
hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an
equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag
behind,--the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he
endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof
of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody
and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and
appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground,
which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky,
gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on
perceiving that he was headless!--but his horror was still more increased on
observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried
before him on the pommel of his saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he
rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement
to give his companion the slip; but the spectre started full jump with him.
Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks
flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he
stretched his long lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of
his flight.

They had now
reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed
possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and
plunged headlong downhill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow
shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous
in goblin story; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the
whitewashed church.

As yet the
panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the
chase, but just as he had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the
saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the
pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save
himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the
earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the
terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind,--for it was his
Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his
haunches; and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his
seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes
jolted on the high ridge of his horse's backbone, with a violence that he
verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in
the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand.
The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him
that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under
the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones's ghostly
competitor had disappeared. "If I can but reach that bridge," thought
Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then he heard the black steed panting and
blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another
convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he
thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now
Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to
rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in
his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod
endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his
cranium with a tremendous crash,--he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and
Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.

The next
morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under
his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make
his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys
assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook;
but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about
the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after
diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road
leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of
horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were
traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook,
where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate
Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

The brook was
searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van
Ripper as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his
worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the
neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-
clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes full of dog's-ears; and a broken
pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to
the community, excepting Cotton Mather's "History of Witchcraft," a "New
England Almanac," and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last
was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless
attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These
magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by
Hans Van Ripper; who, from that time forward, determined to send his children
no more to school, observing that he never knew any good come of this same
reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had
received his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his
person at the time of his disappearance.

The mysterious
event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of
gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the
spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of
Bones, and a whole budget of others were called to mind; and when they had
diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the
present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod
had been carried off by the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in
nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him; the school was removed
to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his
stead.

It is true, an
old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several years after, and
from whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the
intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the
neighborhood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly
in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had
changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and
studied law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar; turned politician;
electioneered; written for the newspapers; and finally had been made a justice
of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival's
disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was
observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related,
and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led
some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

The old country
wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day
that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite
story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The
bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe; and that may be
the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the
church by the border of the millpond. The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell
to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate
pedagogue and the plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has
often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among
the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.